Tea and Just a Little Hint of Sympathy
by Vanessa Sgroi
Summary: Reese comes down with a cold and Finch orders him to stay home. Friendly fluff, no slash. This is my very first POI story. I hope everyone enjoys it!


My first Person of Interest story! I hope everyone enjoys it.

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to the show Person of Interest. I'm just having a little fun with John and Harold.

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**TEA AND JUST A LITTLE HINT OF SYMPATHY**

**By: Vanessa Sgroi**

John Reese sneezed loudly four times in quick succession and let out a disgusted sigh followed by a few colorful swear words. Bear, his adopted Belgian malinois, quirked his head, gazing solemnly at his alpha. John patted Bear's head reassuringly. "No worries, boy. Things tend to get a little loud—and messy—when I have a cold."

The ex-operative eyed the t-shirt he'd just pulled over his head then reconsidered, grabbing a tissue on which to wipe his nose instead. He pushed the ear bud into his right ear, wincing as the congestion and pressure made his inner ears more sensitive.

"Finch?"

"Good morning, Mr. Reese. Good to hear your voice on this bright, sunny morning."

A surly grunt was the only response to Finch's unusually chipper greeting.

"I see the long-awaited sunshine hasn't improved your mood, Mr. Reese," teased Harold.

"My mood is just fine, Finch. Do we have a new number this morning?" Reese's already low-pitched voice was many shades deeper and painfully raspy.

The small smile on Harold's face dropped away. "John, you sound terrible. Is something wrong?"

"No, Harold, it's just a cold," John's voice cracked and squeaked.

"Cold indeed. Not surprising with all the ups and downs in the weather. It wreaks havoc on the body."

"Harold, a number?"

Finch's fingers tapped gently against a piece of paper on his desk. He picked it up, folded it, and stuck it in a shirt pocket. "No, no number yet, John. It's a good day for you to take it easy." Harold decided he could do much of the preliminary legwork himself for a day or two.

"Finch…" There was a warning in John's tone.

"What is that terrible crackling I hear? It's not your phone. Perhaps it's the ear bud," Harold mused. "No, no—wait—the sound—Mr. Reese, it's the fluid buildup in your head. Just by the sound, your ability to breathe through your nose is severely compromised and your hearing maybe suffering a temporary reduction as well. That, combined with what must be a sore throat…"

"Gee, thanks for the rundown, Harold," Reese's voice was now ground gravel and glass. "It makes me feel ever so much better."

"Mr. Reese, the only thing that will make you better is rest. You may be heading for a full blown case of laryngitis, which will do neither one of us any good. Go back to bed, John. Consider it a vacation day." Harold hung up before John could reply, a thoughtful look settling on his face.

"Finch? Finch!" Realizing Harold had hung up on him, John removed the ear bud and tossed it and the phone on the nightstand. He looked at Bear. "Okay, move over you big lunk; I'm coming back to bed. Finch's orders."

When a knock sounded at his door 45 minutes later, John instantly came awake and he quickly disentangled himself from the snoring dog. Grabbing his firearm from the nightstand, he padded down the hall in bare feet, struggling to stifle the overwhelming urge to cough. Cold-addled, John paid little attention to Bear padding after him in a quite unconcerned fashion. Reese had the door thrown open and the gun pointed at Harold's nose before all the pieces fell into place.

"Really, Mr. Reese? That's rather a rude greeting for someone bearing gifts." Harold held up the coffee shop cups and bag he carried in one hand and the pharmacy bag he carried in the other. "And it's precisely why I didn't let myself in in the first place."

John lowered the gun and thumbed the safety. "Harold," Reese croaked. "Sorry." He ran a hand down his face. "I shoulda realized when Bear didn't go on high alert." John placed the gun down on the table near the door.

"No harm done. Here, this should make you feel better." Finch handed the sick man a grande-sized paper coffee cup.

Reese sipped eagerly then grimaced. "This isn't coffee!" His eyes flashed with betrayal.

The corner of Harold's mouth tipped upward. "Brilliant observation, Mr. Reese. It is not. It is Lemon Balm Tea with a little honey. Perfect to fight a cold."

John's eyes narrowed and focused on the second cup in the cardboard container. "What's in _your_ cup?"

"Coffee." Harold pulled the cup closer to him, guarding it. "And, no, you cannot have it."

John sighed. "Fine. What's in the bag?"

"Nun's Puffs."

When Reese's eyebrows climbed to his hairline, Harold actually laughed. "Relax, Mr. Reese. They're pastries. An old traditional recipe so named because they are—and I quote—_so light and tender that they are heavenly_."

"Did you make them, Finch?"

"Oh no. My skills do not extend that far into the kitchen beyond understanding the chemistry behind the whole process. They came from the bakery across the street from the coffee shop, which is next door to the pharmacy. Speaking of which, take two of these first," Finch tossed the cold medicine to Reese. "Wait a bit after taking them and you should be able to appreciate the pastries in all their glory."

Reese hurriedly downed two of the orange capsules. The two men sat in the living room, eventually dining on the still warm Nun's Puffs from the depths of the white paper bag. John finished the tea with a grimace. "The pastries were great, Harold—the tea, not so much."

"But it will do wonders for your health, Mr. Reese. They're extra tea bags in the bag."

"You're sure about the numbers, Finch?"

"Yes. There's no new number," Finch hoped Reese would forgive him the white lie.

John's eyelids began to droop as the cold medicine and tea kicked in. "So what are you going to do today if I stay here?"

"There's always research, Mr. Reese." Harold discreetly tapped his pocket where the piece of paper now resided. "And I have a good number of errands to run today. As I said earlier, it's a good day for you to be off." The bespectacled man stood and gathered the trash. "Now I should head off and you—you—should head back to bed."

Reese nodded and stood. "Finch?"

"Yes, Mr. Reese?"

"Don't forget Carter and Fusco are out there if you need them."

Giving nothing away, Harold dipped his chin then turned and headed for the door. "Indeed they are, John. Go get some sleep." With that the smaller man slipped silently out the door.

Reese shuffled down the hallway into the bedroom where he fell back into bed face first. Turning his head, he whistled for his dog. "Bear! Get in here—no more pastry for you!"

Bear joined him on the bed moments later. Soon John Reese was drifting off to sleep, limbs entangled with both blanket and dog. "Thanks, Harold," he mumbled on a sigh.

_**FIN**_


End file.
